Consequences
by Scandalacious Intentions
Summary: After the Battle of the Seven Potters, Tonks has a worrying realisation while coming to terms with her mentor's death. War has its consequences, but so does marriage.


**Disclaimer: If I made money from this, I could be rolling in gold. As it is, I am surviving on pot noodles and praying to every God I have so much as read about, that the car will pass its M.O.T. so I think it's safe to say that I don't own anything recognisable.**

_1997_

There's something a bit gloomy about being back in London – not that there's anything wrong with London. After all, it's home. But I mean, there's something a bit gloomy about being back at home. It's just a bit of an anti-climax; waking up in Piccadilly and knowing that a fortnight has passed and the honeymoon really is over and you have to be at your desk in…_shit_!

I don't think I've ever leapt out of bed at the sort of speed that could break the sound barrier before. I haven't unpacked yet so at least my uniform is the only thing in the wardrobe; I don't have to faff about looking for it. Which reminds me, there's a suitcase lying around somewhere. I really should sort that out tonight before my dress is a total write-off. Not that I'm going to wear it again. Not that I would ever have worn it if I'd had a choice in the matter. My mother picked it out with me and it's this mess of white silk and cream lace and…well, it wasn't a mess of anything when she paid for it, but I'll bet it's in a hell of a state _now_.

Oh God, there's no time to shower. I'll throw on my uniform and then…no, it's no good. I can't go in smelling of him, I just can't. I'll just have to. No-one's going to notice – not over the smell of Dawlish.

The bedroom's a tip. How is this even possible? I've only spent one night in it. Still, it occurs to me as Remus turns over in his sleep, at least I have an excuse not to make the bed.

He's adorable when he sleeps, at least when he sleeps like this. Some nights, he must think he's a gymnast and some, he spouts nonsense, but this morning, it's like watching an out-sized cherub.

Stop staring. It's ten to nine.

"I'm off," I whisper and my mouth trails down from his ear to his cheek. "Wish I could stay here with you."

"You're insatiable."

My laughter is more shock than amusement. "You didn't do too badly yourself. Anyway, look, the flat's a mess, but I'll sort it out when I come home, all right?"

"What else would I do with my day?"

"Well, anyway, must dash." I've never said goodbye to him before. Not in a 'see you later' kind of way anyway. I want to tell him I love him, but the words just won't come. It's not as though he doesn't know; he's my _husband_ for goodness sake.

"I'll see you later then." I sound ridiculous.

"All right, well, be careful."

Is he not going to say it either? Because if he's not, I'm not.

Oh for goodness sake. "I love you."

"And I love you. Now off you go; you're late."

He sounds just like my mother. Unlike my mother, he does not remind me what I have forgotten. I wish he would because it feels like something important. It's probably just that suitcase I've not unpacked.

It's cold for July. The sky was just as grey in Scotland, but it was quiet and I could spend whole days in bed. In fact, I think we _did_ spend whole days in bed. Oh God, I can _feel_ my cheeks reddening and I've never been able to get rid of a blush. I can't really catch it in time; I start thinking about something mortifying and then I can't stop myself.

But I catch sight of my reflection in the window opposite my desk (09:03 – pretty good) and I don't look half bad, actually. Maybe it's that 'I love you' has replaced 'Goodbye', but there's definitely something different. 'Something different' is an understatement. Considering I was asleep an hour ago, I look bloody fantastic. And that tiny spot just under my hairline has completely gone.

This is great news. Must be all the –

Bloody stop it, Tonks, you're at _work_.

"Shacklebolt? Lupin?"

It doesn't even register until Mad-Eye's practically looming over my desk. Of course my records have changed. How could I have expected them not to? But we married in secret – quite romantic actually, sort of like this couple Remus kept talking about somewhere in Italy. Turned out to be fiction anyway; written by a bloke I've never heard of about five hundred years ago.

I was sort of expecting Mad-Eye to keep up the pretence and let me tell him in my own time. Bad enough that my first day back is a Friday (sod's law), but this has _got_ to be Order business. I'm surprised I wasn't briefed on it last night. Order and method are Remus' bread and butter – even when he makes love. Probably shouldn't have told you that.

The tension as Mad-Eye ushers us into his office, locks the door, and closes the curtains, is palpable. Neither Kingsley nor I want to be the first to speak.

"He'll assume Potter will be travelling with an Auror."

_Lovely weather. How was your honeymoon? _Not one for small-talk is Mad-Eye.

"He'll start with me, but you will both be pursued by members of his inner circle."

Oh, I know who's been baying for my blood. I'm almost looking forward to it. I _owe_ Bellatrix.

"In the case of a personal grudge, I am expecting _you_ to let it go."

He can read my mind, I've long suspected. He's peering at me as though he's expecting to find some vital clue written on the inside of my skull.

"Personal grudge? I don't have a personal grudge. Do you, Kingsley?"

"You _know_ who I'm talking about."

"Why? Because I didn't ask her to be bridesmaid? Honestly, Mad-Eye, I can handle myself."

He concedes with this gruff little grunt and he knows he's lost the battle. "Back to your desk."

I'm halfway out of the door before I realise that Kingsley isn't following me. What am I not being told? Have I made myself out to be a risk? Is this his way of punishing me? Surely not. I mean, in thirty-six hours, I'll have a Potter travelling with me. Leaving me out of a conversation would be jeopardising the whole thing.

But there's a niggling feeling, one that reminds me of being back at school, that I'm being deliberately left out.

"Raid on the Lestranges next week," Kingsley whispers as he brushes past my desk ten minutes later.

"And I'm not going?"

He smiles sadly. Sometimes, I bloody hate Mad-Eye.

* * *

But now he's dead and I'm not sure that the world won't come to end. It's incomprehensible. No matter what happened, Mad-Eye lived. Occasionally, he lost a vital body part, but he never seemed to mind. He quite enjoyed shopping for kooky prosthetics afterwards. Sometimes, I thought that was his favourite part of the job.

Not this time.

Frustrating as he could be, he was always a friend to me. I knew I was his favourite, _everyone _knew I was his favourite, but I never got special treatment. I'm not going to miss having an easy life at work because he never gave me one. I used to think he went out of his way to give me a hard time just to compensate for spending all hours of the night teaching me defensive charms that I don't think would have been listed in any book found in the school library.

It's not until Molly passes me a handkerchief that I realise the sobs in the corner of the room are mine.

He was the last man, the only Ministry Official I knew I could count on, who stood between me and Umbridge and I have absolutely no idea what will happen to my job.

Or me.

And despite that, I feel sick with relief that I've only lost Mad-Eye. At least, Remus is sat here with me, beside me, knocking back whiskey like it's water. Still, I'm not one to talk; mine was gone in one gulp. No wonder I feel a bit sick.

I think I might be coming down with something, to be honest. My head is pounding and I just want to go home to bed. I'm not sure I'll sleep, but I'm dead on my feet here.

Stupid bloody thing to say. I'm grateful I didn't open my mouth and make my excuses.

Though I'm starting to wish I had. If I'd said something, if I'd wanted to go home, Remus wouldn't have had chance to volunteer to bring his body back. I don't want him out there. I want him here with me. I know it's selfish and no, of course I don't want Mad-Eye's body in the wrong hands, but nor do I want someone to have to go out and search for my husband's if he's not back within the hour.

But he _is_. Minus Mad-Eye's body.

"I'd like to go home now please."

Remus only nods. His face is ashen and impossible to read.

I don't know how on earth this can be my fault, but I feel responsible. I've had an unpleasant feeling for the last two days, an impression that I've lost something, that something's missing. I hope to God it doesn't have anything to do with this mission or I'll never forgive myself.

As soon as we're home, he starts changing into his pyjamas, the blue striped two-set that looks like it's wartime hospital-regulation. He's not spoken a word to me.

"Remus?"

He hums his response, he's listening. I pull him to me by the drawstrings of his pyjama bottoms until he's so close I can count every one of the light spattering of freckles on his nose.

"Yes?" His arms reach for me and I let out the breath I hadn't even realised I'd been holding. He's not furious with me. Whatever it is that has plagued me for the last forty-eight hours, it's not anything obvious or dangerous.

He can feel my smile as I drop a kiss to the triangle of bare skin between his neck and the first button, just as I can feel the low rumble of appreciation reverberate through me.

"If you want to talk about him, I've got all night. I can listen for as long as you need me to."

"I'm shattered. I think I'm just going to go to sleep."

He nods. "Well, I'll still be here in the morning."

"Good. Where else would you be?"

I have every intention of going to sleep, but as soon as my head hits the pillow, my mind is going a mile a minute. And I oughtn't to be bothering Remus because he _can_ sleep. He's seen too much to be kept awake by this. Rolling toward him is like rolling into an oven. I do not understand how one man can give off so much body heat. I can't wait for winter; I'm going to save so much money on heating.

He doesn't wake until one leg is wrapped between his and I've wriggled into the crook of his arm.

"Moody?"

"No, it's Tonks."

A muscle at the pit of his stomach jumps against me in time with his breathy laughter. He opens one coal-black eye, barely visible in the dark and smiles sleepily at me.

"Is this _about_ Moody? Do you want to talk?"

"I just don't want to be alone."

"You're not alone."

"I mean, right now. I don't want it to be so silent. I want to feel something. I'm numb and I'm terrified, Remus, and I _feel_ alone and…"

His kiss is deep and searching and we're intertwined and…and it's wonderful. The future, _our_ future, is dreadfully uncertain and I don't know how long I have left to live, let alone to work under a fascist government, but that doesn't matter. In this moment, nothing matters.

He's so careful, so deliberate, so controlled. He makes love like he's conducting _The Rite of Spring. _He has absolutely no idea what he does to me, what the _thought_ of him does to me.

And afterwards, when he's pressed up against me, idly tracing patterns along my arm and sighing contentedly into the crook of my shoulder, I can sleep. I'm burying my head into the pillow when the date changes on the clock sitting on the bedside cabinet and I realise that he _shouldn't_ be sighing contentedly at all. Only moments ago, there were butterflies dancing around the pit of my stomach. They have become lead weights. I know what's missing.

My period.


End file.
